


The Gardeners

by suitesamba



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: First Times, Fluff, Gardens & Gardening, Happy Ending, Humor, Inexperienced Snape, M/M, Tomato Wars, virgin!Snape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-23 09:55:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4872424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suitesamba/pseuds/suitesamba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Lily Luna Potter is awarded an apprenticeship with Severus Snape, Harry finds himself face to face with a man who isn’t at all the Snape he remembers from his childhood. This Snape is up to something, and Harry is determined to find out what. The secret, Harry learns, is in the tomatoes. Has Snape lost the plot or is he putting on a show? Harry and Severus tiptoe together through awkward interviews, tomato gardens and surprise kisses to find common ground, and a happily ever after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Gardeners

**Author's Note:**

> My entry for the "Odd Jobs" fest at Snape_Potter on the journals. Rules were to portray Harry/Severus in non-standard professions (no Quidditch player, Auror, Professor, Potions Master). Thanks to the incomparable badgerlady for the beta and SPaG.

__

Gardening is cheaper than therapy and you get tomatoes.  
~Author Unknown

“You should wash the eggshells – with soap and water – and let them dry for a day or two. Make sure they’re good and brittle before you grind them.”

“Dad – I know. I’ve helped you with this since I was six.”

Harry Potter, dressed in his oldest and most comfortable gardening clothes, looked across the workbench at his youngest child. How had she grown up so fast? Lily was just out of Hogwarts and ready to start an apprenticeship in medicinal Herbology, a relatively new discipline combining the healing arts with Potions and Herbology. This would likely be the last year she’d help him set the new tomato plants, the last year she’d spend a whole summer at the house in Godric’s Hollow before launching her own career.

Lily met his fond gaze and smiled. “You know, Dad, Neville uses more bone meal and less aspirin in his fertilizer.”

“Neville’s tomatoes might be bigger than mine, but they’re not as tasty,” Harry replied, pushing the mortar and pestle toward his daughter. “And besides, he uses dragon dung in his fertilizer.”

“And we all know that’s against your rules.” Lily grinned at him as she dumped the dried egg shells into the shallow stone dish and began grinding them. “It was the tomatoes, wasn’t it? The reason you and Mom divorced?”

Harry would have known she was teasing even if she hadn’t winked at him.

“Right – tomatoes and the Seeker for the Harpies,” Harry answered, rolling his eyes.

“You’re one to talk, Dad,” Lily said as she poured more shells into the stone bowl and continued pulverizing them.

“I waited until _after_ the divorce, thank you very much.”

There was no venom in his voice. Any anger he’d felt had long since died. He’d settled remarkably well into single life. Perhaps it was because he’d known, long before the divorce, that he spent a lot more time watching the opposing male Quidditch players at Ginny’s games than he spent watching Ginny. Still, he’d been shocked out of his socks when Ginny beat him to the punch and told him, as he watered the garden one August morning, that she’d fallen in love with one of her own teammates.

Lily gave him an affectionate smile. “You like Clarice – you get on with her almost as well as with Uncle Ron. And you’re far happier now than you were when you and Mum lived together.” She looked up from her work and studied him as he measured bone meal into a container, leveling each cup carefully. “But honestly, Dad, wouldn’t you be happier if you settled down with someone? Someone who could keep you company around here? It’s been five years!”

“What makes you think I’m not happy?” Harry asked as he pried opened a carton of Epsom Salts. “I’m happy. Ecstatic. Why wouldn’t I be? You’ve all made it through Hogwarts, the boys are both happy and on their own, and you’re ready to start an apprenticeship.” 

“But Daddy – look at Mum. Look how happy she is with Clarice.”

Harry sighed. He measured a cup of the salts and poured them on top of the bone meal. “Your mother and Clarice have a lot in common. They like the same things – have the same friends. Do you know how difficult it is for me to find someone – anyone – who likes the kind of life I live? Spending all my time at home playing in the dirt?”

“Dad – I’m sure there’s _someone_ out there who….” 

“Who wants to be mobbed when he goes out in public with me? Who’s fine with never going out in public at all? Or who has an unlimited supply of Polyjuice Potion and hairs from random Muggles?”

“Daddy – you’re impossible. You know I just want you to be happy. We all do. We worry….”

Harry smiled. This wasn’t the first time they’d had this particular discussion, and he _was_ touched that his children were concerned. But he was fine – perfectly fine. Happy. 

“Speaking of your apprenticeship….”

“Were we?” Lily returned, rolling her eyes.

“Yes, we were. Before you started in on me again.”

“I didn’t start….”

“Any idea yet who you’ve been matched with?”

The apprenticeship process was a formal one of applications, referrals, interviews, rankings and placement. Lily had been preparing for nearly a year and it had had her tied up in knots for weeks as the selection day drew closer and closer.

But now, Lily avoided meeting Harry’s eyes, looking down at the table as she worked.

“Well, actually, Dad – yes.” She continued crushing the egg shells as she spoke. She glanced up at him, then lowered her eyes, which were shining brightly. “My owl came this morning.” 

Harry had added the last cup of salts to the bone meal and was turning the fertilizer with a wooden spoon. He forced himself to continue to stir evenly as he looked at his daughter. There was a reason she hadn’t told him as soon as the owl arrived. “Go on then– who is it?” he encouraged her.

“Master Snape,” she said in a rushed breath, her awe at the fortuitous assignment apparent in her voice. “Isn’t that great, Dad? He’s got more Wizarding patents in the field than anyone else! He works out of a lab on his estate in Yorkshire. I’ll get to focus on research and won’t even have to move out of England – he’s already given me permission to live at home and Apparate in every day.”

 _Snape?_ Harry’s head was reeling. _What the hell? Severus Snape?_ He fought back the familiar pang in his stomach, the odd mix of awe and fear, that immediately hit him whenever he heard his old professor and headmaster’s name.

“Lily – I saw the Masters list – his name wasn’t on it. He doesn’t take apprentices.” Harry had spent many years deliberately _not_ thinking about Snape, but the image of the man, with all his bitterness and bravery, immediately rose up in his mind.

“Well – yes.” Lily looked ready to burst with excitement. “He usually doesn’t – but he’s taken one or two over the years. Apparently, he looks over the candidates and their qualifications every year and the guild always gives him first choice if anyone catches his eye. He almost always passes.” She twisted the pestle and smiled brightly at Harry. “Oh, Dad! Can you even believe it? He chose _me_! I’m going to apprentice with _Master Snape!_ ”

 _Looked over the list_ , Harry thought to himself even as he smiled back at Lily. He had a very good idea that Snape had read over the list of prospects and had homed in on the most familiar – and beloved – name on it. 

Lily Potter. 

_Fuck._

“I know what you’re thinking, Dad,” Lily said, obviously reading the look on his face – he’d have to work on that. “But we’re referred to only by numbers on the list. The Masters see a description of our interests and background, our O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. scores, and the letters of recommendation our professors write for us, and they have to refer to us by number too. Daddy – Master Snape doesn’t know my name.” She looked at him defiantly. “He didn’t choose me because my name is Lily Potter.”

Harry looked down, embarrassed to be caught out. But still….

“I’m sorry, honey. I’m happy for you – of course I am. You deserve the best, and if he’s the best, good for you.” He gazed at his daughter. It was hard to see the pig-tailed, freckle-faced girl with torn overalls of yesteryear. How the _hell_ had she grown up so quickly? “But you know Snape didn’t think much of me – he was a hard man back then, living a nearly impossible life, and I certainly didn’t make it any easier for him. Wounds like that don’t heal over well. He’s a recluse, too – no one sees him anymore – so I’m not really comfortable about he’ll interact with you.” At the look on her face, he hurried on. “Look, Lily, I’m thrilled– really – I am. Just – well, just don’t take it personally if he’s not as…kind…as your other professors have been.”

“It will be fine, Dad.” She pushed the mortar and pestle away then walked around the table and hugged him. “I think I can handle Master Snape. I’ve had lots of practice with Uncle Percy over the years.”

Harry laughed, and Lily giggled in his arms. She had a point about Percy. Harry started to clean up the mess they’d made while Lily returned to her work, picking up the pestle again before once again addressing her father. “Now, let’s talk about something else – how about that idea I had for you to find someone and settle down?”

ooOOOoo

Harry Potter, on the fast track to be named the youngest head of the MLE ever, had thrown the Wizarding world off-kilter by taking a leave of absence from his Auror position when Albus Severus was born. He resigned permanently when Ginny went back to the Harpies as a trainer, and continued to stay home when she picked up her old Chaser position after Lily came along.

He was happy. Perfectly content. Harry loved the children, loved being home with them, and was happier in this phase of his life than he’d ever been. And while there may have been little passion in his relationship with his wife, they loved each other, and loved the children, and he was abundantly thankful for his completely ordinary life. 

Sometime, more often than not, he forgot he was the Boy Who Lived.

There had been days – years, really – when he’d felt that there would never be _anything_ ordinary about his life.

Harry hadn’t intended to turn a fun hobby into a career – going from dabbling in the garden with the children to earning a respectable living growing garden fruits and vegetables and selling them to London restaurants. It had just sort of happened, as things sometimes did with him, when George and Angelina brought to dinner at the Harry and Ginny’s a Muggle-born friend who owned a Muggle restaurant.

And while Harry grew a wide variety of fruits and vegetables, nearly all rather successfully, his first love would always be his tomatoes.

Harry had a firm policy regarding his garden – no magic. Everything was done the Muggle way –working the soil, planting and staking, weeding and pruning, fertilizing and harvesting. It was more than a matter of pride for him – he’d raised his children to understand that magic was a tool, and a gift, not the answer to all of life’s problems. Sure, he could point his wand at a green tomato and instantly ripen it, or fertilize the plants with dragon dung, or sprinkle on Auntie Abigail’s Magical Pest Eliminator, but he preferred to mix his own fertilizer, to keep pests at bay the natural way, and to work the earth with his own hands. After the stressful, hectic and dangerous years he spent with the Aurors, years made even more dangerous by his own fame, he quickly grew to appreciate the slowness of a garden, how steady, consistent and hard work always paid off. He loved the feeling of sun on his shoulders, and the amazing first shoots of green as the beans and beets and squash seedlings pushed their way out of the ground.

He loved hearing the children’s bright laughter as they raced between the rows, the excitement on their small, ruddy faces when their own little plots showed the first signs of life. How they’d count the onion shoots, delight in thinning out the carrots and radishes, come running to him when the first watermelon took on the vine.

Maybe he was running from life, hiding from the evil that still plagued the world and always had, but something somewhere inside his soul told him that he’d done enough, seen enough. That these years were for his children and his family, and maybe – just maybe – for himself as well.

Summers at Godric’s Hollow were full of Weasley and Potter children romping in the dirt and playing in the creek, with gardening chores for all, and with the first pick of the fresh fruits from the little orchard and fresh vegetables from the family garden being consumed right here at home. Each of the children had his or her own small plot to grow whatever they desired, and it was a sad day, indeed, when James left Hogwarts and started Uni, and his plot near the plum trees was left fallow and cold.

On a morning in late June, a week after Lily started her apprenticeship, Harry sat on his porch stairs with a cup of strong coffee and a pile of old rags, which he was tearing into strips. He needed to tieup the rapidly growing cherry tomato plants today, and add a second round of fertilizer. And there were new squash to harvest, and weeds to pull, and something was starting to chew up the pole beans. But the day was so lovely, the morning breeze so refreshing, and frankly, his coffee so delicious, that he was still sitting on the porch stair with a pile of rags in his lap when the crack of Apparition just behind him, immediately followed by a sharp “Potter!” made him spill his coffee all over his lap.

Magic was a tool, but it was a dead useful tool at times like this. Harry uttered cooling and drying charms in the same breath, then rose slowly to his feet.

He knew that “Potter!”

In the twenty-six years since the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry had spoken to Severus Snape only one time.

One time — more than twenty-five years ago – when he’d sought him out at his home at Spinner’s End to return the memories.

Snape hadn’t exactly disappeared. One heard about him – or read his sometimes scathing letters to the _Prophet_. But he was seldom seen in public, and never attended any of the yearly memorial remembrances. Harry, who tried to avoid publicity himself, hadn’t so much as seen Snape’s shadow in all these years.

He took a deep breath, and turned to face this – this – intruder with his hand already outstretched to welcome the man who had just ruined a perfectly peaceful June morning.

“Good morning, Master Snape,” he said, giving himself points for not saying “Headmaster Snape” or “Professor Snape.” 

Snape, dressed in black – surprise, surprise – stared at Harry’s hand.

“Good God, Potter. Do you ever wash those hands?” he exclaimed in an oily voice that took Harry back to Potions class at Hogwarts so quickly he swore he could smell sulphur. Snape took Harry’s proffered hand nonetheless and gave it a quick, perfunctory shake, then took two confident strides over to the staircase and looked out into the gardens. 

“I spend a lot of time in the garden,” Harry said, addressing Snape’s back now, and wondering how the hell a man of his age and disposition could possibly have such a nice arse. He took a deep breath – it was much easier to be brave when speaking to shoulder blades. “A bit of dirt isn’t going to kill you.”

“A bit of dirt? Do you realize exactly what is in that _bit of dirt_? Chemicals! Senseless, needless Muggle chemicals that pollute the ground and poison the flesh of the fruits and vegetables that grow in it.” His head was turned to the left, toward the tomato gardens, leaving Harry with an excellent view of his distinctive profile. Harry wondered if he could smell the tomatoes with that prodigious nose.

“I don’t - ” Harry began, but Snape hadn’t finished.

“And when we ingest those very same fruits and vegetables, we poison ourselves. And not just ourselves, but our children.” 

“I never - ” protested Harry, but Snape whirled around, the hem of his robe snapping in the air with a crack nearly as loud as a beginner’s Apparition. Harry’s mouth dropped open as Severus continued his rant.

“Our _children_ , Potter!” he repeated. His voice, as he continued, lost the oiliness, but retained all the intensity Harry remembered, even after all these years. “Or, more precisely, _your_ children!”

“Look – Profes – Snape. _Master_ Snape.” Harry wiped perspiration off his forehead with the back of his hand and took a deep breath. He needed to get control of this conversation and figure out just why Severus Snape had appeared out of the blue to rake him over the coals about Muggle chemicals – which of course he didn’t use, and never had. But starting an argument wasn’t going to get him anywhere. They needed to sit down civilly, like adults. Like gentlemen.

He’d promised himself that – sworn to it – after that brief and cold visit to Spinner’s End all those years ago. That if he ever found himself in the same room with Snape again, he’d be civil and polite. 

_High road, Harry. Take the high road,_ he reminded himself.

Still, he stood there, hands on his hips, flustered.

Tea.

“Tea. I’ll make tea.”

He wondered if it was a completely good idea to leave Snape unguarded on his porch – would he charge into the garden and uproot the precious plants to save the children of the world? Surely Snape hadn’t shown up at his home unannounced on a mission to attack his supposed use of chemical fertilizers or pesticides? As Harry forced himself through the usually calming ritual of preparing tea, he considered a few more likely scenarios. 

Snape probably wasn’t here to impose a detention, or to chat about his mum. The most obvious reason was his daughter. The apprentices had left Hogwarts after their N.E.W.T.s but before official end of term. Snape hadn’t reneged on his choice after learning he’d have a Potter as an apprentice, and from all Harry could discern from the short time he’d spent with Lily the past week, the apprenticeship had started off very promisingly and the two were getting along quite well.

“He’s fine, Dad,” Lily had assured him on Saturday when she’d come over to help with the compost. “He’s tough – but he should be tough. I expect that. It’s just – well….”

“It’s just what?” he’d replied, settling back on his heels and pushing his glasses up his sweaty nose. He peered at his daughter through the slightly foggy lenses. She seemed reluctant to finish her thought. “What is it, Lils?”

“He seems lonely,” she blurted, words running together. “So I talk to him. While we work. He seems interested in you – in what you’re doing these days. I think he was really surprised that you aren’t an Auror, but when I told him you and Mum weren’t together anymore, and told him why, he didn’t seem at all surprised.”

Harry had stared at his daughter, then resumed poking at the earth with his trowel. He didn’t know how to identify the feelings tumbling around inside him, and told himself not to read anything into this. Lily had only known Snape a week. She was interpreting things through her own perspective – a perspective that was both very young, and very coloured by her DNA.

“We didn’t really get much closure after the war,” he said, after taking a moment to digest what she’d said. He smiled and shrugged. “I must admit I’m curious about him, too.”

“Oh good – I’ll bring him ‘round for tea, then,” Lily had said, her eyes twinkling.

It had broken the tension, and they didn’t talk much about Snape after that.

Perhaps they should have.

Because Snape was here now, at Harry’s house, and Harry was carrying a laden tea tray out to the spacious front porch. He placed the tray on the table and Snape, who had descended the porch stairs and was standing on the flagstone walk gazing out toward the gardens, whipped his head around when he heard the rattle of dishes. Harry bravely met his gaze.

He might not have recognized Snape were it not for the distinctive nose and the telltale voice. Snape’s hair, now salt and pepper, which Harry had always thought as oily as the man himself, was plaited neatly down his back, no longer a greasy curtain framing an unpleasant portrait. His robes were more modern – still traditional, still black, but worn looser, touched with green and grey, and surprisingly lacking in buttons. Snape had aged – he was in his sixties, after all – but somehow managed to look healthier. His face was slightly tanned, tanned enough that no one would mistake him now for a vampire. 

After a long moment, he turned his head away from Harry’s gaze, giving Harry a glimpse of the ropey scars on his neck where Nagini had torn into his throat. Harry would never forgot that gruesome scene, but was somehow surprised, and somewhat sobered, to see them, still so obvious after all these years. He’d thought that they would, perhaps, have faded with time, as had the scar on his chest from the locket, and on his arm from Nagini’s bite that Christmas night in Godric’s Hollow.

“Yes, I’ve aged. Yes, I get more sun now. Yes, my neck is horribly scarred. Now, if you’ve finished staring and cataloguing my features, would you like to invite me to sit down for tea?”

Harry, who’d been feeling decidedly out of his element here in his own home, oddly felt more at ease with the familiar sarcasm. He pulled out the chair opposite his and, without further comment, settled into his own seat and began to pour, not waiting for Snape to sit.

Snape settled in, helped himself to two biscuits, took a bite out of one and pushed it to the side, and picked up a crumbly piece of shortbread Harry had made that morning using Molly’s ancient family recipe. He bit into the biscuit and a shower of yellow crumbs rained down on his robes. Several stuck to the corner of his mouth and Harry tried very hard not to stare as Snape licked his lips then used the tip of his tongue to stab at the remaining crumbs.

“Molly Weasley should sell this recipe,” Snape stated, idly brushing the crumbs off his robes. “Changing to unrefined sugar has altered the texture somewhat, but improves the taste enough to make the substitution acceptable.”

While Molly had not sold the recipe, she was currently supplying her shortbread to two Muggle coffee shops in London, one of which Harry owned and Teddy Lupin’s wife managed, and making enough money to keep Arthur happily knee-deep in batteries and plugs.

Harry stared at the square of shortbread in his own hand. He _had_ slightly modified Molly’s recipe. How the hell had Snape known? How did he remember Molly’s shortbread anyway? Was he some sort of super taster? The Sultan of ingredient identification?

 _Ingredients._ Of course. The man was a Master of Medicinal Herbology. He _knew_ ingredients. Better even than Harry did.

“Right – glad you approve,” Harry said, leaning in over his plate to bite down on the morsel in his hand so that the crumbs fell on the table and not on his clothing or, Merlin help him, did not adhere to the corners of his mouth.

“I am here for the interview, of course,” Snape announced after he finished the shortbread and they each downed half a cup of tea in an odd sort of semi-companionable silence. “As scheduled.” He looked pointedly at Harry, who was scrambling to remember anything having to do with an interview – with _anyone_ – reached into his robes and extracted a pair of reading glasses, a roll of parchment, a long eagle-feather quill and a bottle of ink. He arranged parchment, ink and quill neatly on the table as Harry watched, a bit gobsmacked. No, Snape definitely hadn’t scheduled an interview with him, but he spoke as if Harry should know what this was about, and have it on his calendar. It was mildly entertaining, and if he were honest with himself, Harry was enjoying this odd and unexpected visit – albeit enjoying it in an uncomfortably fascinating way. 

Snape must be here because of Lily’s apprenticeship. The program was sponsored by the Ministry and rigorously regulated. It would be just like the Ministry to require interviews with the apprentices’ parents just to have more paperwork to file.

“Interview. Right. Of course,” Harry said. He poured more tea, added milk to his, and nodded at Snape. “Best get on with it, then.”

Snape opened the scroll with an exaggerated flourish and anchored it down with the ink bottle and the sugar bowl. Harry leaned forward and squinted, trying to read what was clearly a series of handwritten questions.

“Name – Harry Potter.” Snape spoke aloud as he filled in the answer to the first question. He tapped the tip of the quill on the paper and looked up at Harry. “Or is it Henry? Harold?”

“Just Harry,” Harry answered, frowning. His name had been in the _Prophet_ at least four hundred thousand times. Surely Snape took the _Prophet_? When had he ever seen him referred to as Harold or Henry? “Harry James.”

“Harry will do,” Snape snapped. The reading glasses were perched on the very tip of his nose and he looked up over them at Harry. “Date of birth?”

Harry stared. It wasn’t only that his birthday had been declared a Wizarding holiday in Great Britain twenty years ago. There was also the small matter of the Prophecy.

Snape stared back. “Come, Mr. Potter. Your reluctance to admit your age is noted, but I already know the year. It was an especially stressful one for me.”

Harry dropped his head into his hands. Mildly entertaining was rapidly becoming mildly annoying. What was Snape up to?

“Fine. We’ll just leave that one blank.” Snape drew an X in the margin next to the question and moved on. “I have all the pertinent data for Miss Potter, of course – date of birth, birth weight, medical and schooling history, O.W.L.s, N.E.W.T.s, disciplinary records….”

“What?”

“Age at first menses was twelve years, one month. Rather young – is there a family history of early menses in the Weasley family?”

Harry very much wanted to point out that Ginny was the first female Weasley in seven generations, and very much wanted to ask how the hell that was relevant to anything and what was this ridiculous interview all about anyway?

But he also wanted to find out why Snape was really here, because the man really, _really_ couldn’t be this stupid. Or insane.

“Cat got your tongue, Potter?” Snape asked, cocking his head to the side and managing to look like a benign schoolmarm behind the silver-rimmed glasses.

“You’ll have to ask Molly,” he managed at last. _Let her whack you across the face instead of me._ He could just picture Severus Snape knocking on the door of the Burrow and asking Molly, in his annoying professional voice, at what age she’d had her “first menses.”

Snape frowned. “I see. Well, let’s just move on, shall we? We’ll need your developmental history. First word?”

“Oh please!” Harry protested. First word? What? Did Snape think he’d found his baby book in the wreckage of the cottage in Godric’s Hollow? Or that Petunia Dursley had bought him a replacement?

“Doubtful,” muttered Snape, but he carefully wrote “Please” beside the line in question. “Age at successful completion of toilet training?”

Once again, Harry found himself at a loss for words. He snorted, then reached out and tried to take the parchment. “Let me see that.”

Snape deftly moved the paper out of his reach. “Fine – we’ll just put in five years old, then, shall we?”

“Five!”

“Six?”

Harry glared. “How is this relevant?”

Snape ignored him and moved on to the next question.

“Are you circumcised?”

“I beg your pardon?” Harry blinked. 

“Circumcised. A barbaric practice, at best, but frequently used hygienically in industrialized society.”

“I know what it means. I’m wondering why the f…. why you need to know that!”

“You’ll have to ask the Ministry, Mr. Potter. All parents are given the same questions and the answers are compiled by the Ministry for statistical compilation. You’ve already agreed to this, of course, or your daughter wouldn’t be in the program.” He reached back into his robes and extracted another scroll. He unrolled it with a flourish and held it out so that Harry could clearly see his own signature just below Ginny’s. 

Harry remembered signing several forms when Lily applied to the Ministry Mastery Apprenticeship program. He did not recall signing away his right to keep his circumcision status private.

“Have you interviewed Ginny?” Harry tried to sneak another look at the scroll but Snape casually moved the inkwell and let the parchment roll up a few inches.

“Not yet. The former Mrs. Potter and her wife are traveling with the Harpies this week.” He looked at Harry suspiciously, his expression conveying that he felt Harry should know his ex-wife’s schedule better than he did. Harry glanced at the scroll again, peeking under the rolled portion. Snape artfully scooted it out of his reach again. ”Frequency of masturbation?”

“I haven’t even answered the last question!”

“Not often enough,” Snape said, carefully writing on the parchment. “Age at loss of virginity?”

“Eighteen!” Harry exclaimed, driven by some unknown compulsion to just answer the damn questions and take back control of his morning. He was fairly certain by now that Snape wasn’t up to some sort of Snape-like subterfuge but had, in fact, gone completely barmy. He wondered how quickly Lily would respond if he managed to send his Patronus.

“Gender of partner?” Snape looked up slowly, giving Harry a once-over that left no doubt he knew Harry’s current preferences.

“It was a foursome with Crabbe and Goyle and a Blast-Ended Skrewt! Look – Snape – is this some sort of joke?”

Snape didn’t look up until he’d finished filling in Harry’s answer. “Joke?” He pushed the reading glasses up on his head and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You did read the packet I sent back for you with your daughter, did you not?”

Harry balked. Lily hadn’t given him a packet, but if she’d somehow forgotten, admitting he’d never received it might get her in trouble with Snape.

“I skimmed it. I’ve been busy.” He tried to gather himself together. “Look – why don’t you just leave that and I’ll fill it out tonight when I have more time? I’ll make sure Lily brings it back to you tomorrow.”

“Impossible. Now, if you’d just answer the questions, Mr. Potter, we can finish this in five minutes and you can get back to playing in the dirt.”

It was such a perfectly typical thing for Snape to say, but he managed to say it without any of the sarcasm or vitriol that had accompanied nearly every word from his mouth during Harry’s years at Hogwarts.

“I’ll answer meaningful questions and not ridiculous, invasive ones about my private life,” Harry stated, crossing his arms across his chest and glaring at Snape. 

“Excellent.” Snape smiled. It was the kind of smile a nurse might give a child right before the needle went in the arm. “Have you ever used an Unforgivable?”

Harry counted to ten. Slowly. Silently. The shortbread in his hand, the delicious, melt-in-your-mouth-morsel, slowly disintegrated under the pressure of his clenching fingers. As calmly as he was able, he pushed his chair back and stood.

“I think we’re finished,” he said firmly.

“If you had to describe your children as a vegetables, which would you choose for each of them?”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Not at all. And speaking of vegetables, how do you determine optimum timing to set your tomato plants each spring?”

“My tomato plants? What does that have to do with –”

“Just answer the question, Mr. Potter.” Snape tapped his quill on the parchment impatiently.

“Second Sunday in May, so long as the average daily temperature the week before has been 20 or above, and all danger of frost is over.”

“And do you sucker the plants to discourage excessive foliage growth or allow the plants to bush out for more resistance to wind and weather?”

“It depends on the variety of tomato.” 

“Brand of fertilizer?”

“I make my own – wait, what is this about?”

“Now back to the question regarding your children – which vegetable – ”

Harry, who’d been pacified momentarily by questions he could answer – questions, when he considered it later, that could not possibly be general Ministry questions for all parents, threw up his hands. “Look – my children aren’t vegetables, I don’t use Unforgivables unless there are Death Eaters in the room, I masturbate every day and I’m not circumcised!” 

“Daddy?”

The voice – tentative and disbelieving – came from behind him.

“Ah – Miss Potter.” 

“Lily….”

“Master Snape! I thought the interview was tomorrow!” Lily glared at her father, red-faced and mortified. “Daddy!” she hissed. “You can’t talk like that to Master Snape!”

“Calm down, Miss Potter. I think I understand now.” Snape gave Harry a falsely indulgent smile. “Your father obviously wasn’t expecting me, and the rather personal nature of some of the questions the Ministry requires we ask must have taken him by surprise.” He reached for another shortbread square and stood. “This is actually reassuring – I wondered if you’d gone a bit barmy, Mr. Potter, puttering around here all day talking to your tomatoes.”

Harry glanced at his daughter, who looked completely appalled. 

“I suppose we should reschedule,” Snape suggested. “Miss Potter and I have a busy week ahead of us, but I could squeeze you in next Monday, Mr. Potter.”

“He’s got to interview Mum next week, Dad,” Lily said. She glanced from Snape to Harry, her eyebrows furrowing exactly the way Ginny’s did when she didn’t quite trust what was going on in front of her. “Master Snape, Mum and Dad still get along well. Couldn’t you interview them at the same time?”

“I’m afraid not,” Snape answered. “As I already explained, quite a few of the questions are very personal in nature.”

“Monday will be fine,” Harry quickly cut in, giving Snape a look that said he was on to him, and he’d be much better prepared next time around. For example, he’d be contacting the Ministry for an official list of questions. “Lunch time?”

“Very well.” Snape’s eyes strayed across the yard to the largest of the garden plots, the one filled with lush tomato plants, already waist high. 

“Oh! Master Snape – you’ve got to see my father’s tomatoes while you’re here!” exclaimed Lily. “He grows the best tomatoes in all of England – really!”

“Is he harvesting this early?” Snape asked, innocently.

“Only in the greenhouse,” Lily answered, giving Harry a look that told him to behave himself.

“The best, you say?” continued Snape. “I’ve heard that Longbottom claims to grow the best tomatoes in all of Wizarding Britain.” Snape snorted “But if you insist.” He turned to Harry and bowed curtly. “Good day, Mr. Potter. I apologize for the mix-up.”

Lily took his arm and led him to the garden while Harry sat on the porch, watching as his daughter took her time with the garden tour. As they came out of the greenhouse and walked through the tomato patch, Snape seemed to pay close attention to the plants, bending down now and again to lift up a laden stalk and, at one point, just before he shook Lily’s hand, then turned and Apparated away, he shuffled his feet in the damp earth.

Harry found quite a lot about that visit odd, but that final foot shuffle stuck with him, and was all he could think about for most of the morning.

ooOOOoo

“No I’m not kidding – right there. In the chair you’re sitting in.” Harry took another long drink of his beer and grinned at his best friend.

“No way, mate. Snape? I mean – yeah – from what I hear from Dad and Percy, he’s got a reputation around the Ministry for being difficult. When Ginny told us about Lily’s apprenticeship, Percy said that Snape is always finding loopholes to get around the paperwork they make him file when he wants to try some new combination of medicinal ingredients. Percy says he tries to hold himself above the law.”

“Yeah, Percy would think that, wouldn’t he?” Harry replied. Personally, he didn’t think Snape held himself above the law at all. He thought Snape was a smart man with a good deal more common sense than the Ministry officials, and someone who realized the insufferable paperwork was a colossal waste of his time. Harry had plenty of experience with Ministry paperwork from his years with the Aurors, and he sided squarely with Snape here. And in light of what Ron had just told him, his visit earlier in the week made a lot more sense. Snape was required to complete interviews with his apprentice’s parents, and turn in paperwork that no one would ever read. From what Harry could see, Snape had just decided to have some fun with it.

That had to be it – didn’t it? 

The problem was – Snape actually having _fun_ with something was pretty far outside the realm of possibility.

“Well, Snape doesn’t think too highly of the Ministry red tape, at least.”

Ron laughed. “You can say that again. I hear he’s done some interesting things over the years. Everyone more or less puts up with it because he’s the best there is in his field. So what if he’s a bit eccentric?”

“A _bit_ eccentric?” Harry grinned. 

“Barking mad?” suggested Ron. He downed the rest of his beer and gave a satisfied sigh. “You know, Percy and Dad talk about him, but Dad says he’s not seen him since the war, and Percy’s only seen him once or twice - when Snape wants to get in someone’s face.” He grimaced, as if remembering Potions class and Snape leaning over his desk, getting in _his_ face. “What’s he look like now, Harry? Still the same ol’ Snape? Big nose and yellow skin and greasy hair? Looks like he’s about to let his fangs out?”

“Actually – ” Harry paused, picturing the Snape of several days ago in his head. Quite clearly, in fact. And favourably. Merlin – since he started looking at men like _that_ , he couldn’t even look at Snape without checking him out. “Well, he still wears black – mostly. But not like before – not so severe, anyway. And he’s not pale, and his hair is a lot longer – and it was tied back. I’d say the last twenty-five years have been good to him.”

Ron was looking at Harry suspiciously. “But he still has a big nose,” he said. “That can’t have gotten better in twenty-five years.”

Harry shrugged. “I really didn’t notice,” he said. “He just looked all around better. Like he’s enjoying life a bit, maybe.”

“Enjoying putting you off guard by showing up at your place for an interview?” Ron tilted back in his chair and sighed. “He really asked how often you toss off?”

“Really.” Harry grinned, then shook his head. It was easier to laugh about the experience now that a few days had passed and he wasn’t so unsettled by it. “I’d be worried about Lily, but she swears he’s one hundred percent professional – except for seeming more interested in me than strictly necessary.”

“I’d say it’s never strictly necessary,” Ron said. “You’re already more popular than Merlin. You up and leave the Aurors to stay home with Jamie and Al, basically drop out of Wizarding society, then become a _gardener_ instead of going back to the Ministry when Lils started Hogwarts, and they _still_ love you.” There was no bitterness or jealousy in Ron’s voice at all. Nor was there envy – he liked his own life running the WWW joke shops with George just fine. “You’re going to get a big head if Snape joins your fan club. Do you suppose he’ll ask for an autographed photograph?”

“Maybe he’ll ask me to sign his chest.” Harry winked at Ron and Ron grimaced in return.

“Right,” muttered Harry. He took another drink of beer and looked out toward the Quidditch pitch where a ragtag collection of Weasleys and Potters were in the middle of an impromptu pick-up game. Someone suddenly dived steeply from above the treetops and Harry whistled. “Hugo – who’d have thought Hermione’s son would be the one to go professional?”

Ron shook his head. “Who’d have thought that Hermione would turn into a Quidditch mum?”

“I guess we all turned out a bit different than we thought we would,” Harry said.

“You can say that again,” answered Ron, rocking back on his chair a bit more.

His timing was not the best. For at that very moment, someone Apparated directly onto Harry’s porch, not three feet away from the table. Ron, startled, fell over backward in his chair.

“Mr. Weasley, chairs have four legs for a reason.”

Severus Snape, wearing fitted black robes and a steel grey cape, stepped forward and helped Ron right himself and the chair, then brushed off Ron’s shirt with a few efficient swipes of his hand. Ron stared, gobsmacked, and perhaps a bit disoriented from the fall, as Snape turned to Harry.

“Mr. Potter – I was hoping to find you alone.”

Harry, who had remained seated and was looking at Snape with a rather bemused expression, despite Ron’s predicament, now looked over at Ron, then pointedly out at the Quidditch pitch.

“Sorry,” he said. “The kids could be at it for hours, and Ron’s keeping me company while they play.”

Snape looked out toward the pitch, frowning, then slid his gaze slowly over to Ron, who squirmed like a school boy under the scrutiny. He seemed to consider his options, then sighed.

“I suppose he was here first,” he said, “and, given the fact that he is still gaping at me several minutes after my arrival, can hardly be expected to be courteous enough to give you a moment or two of privacy so I can ask you to dinner.”

“To dinner? You’re asking Harry on a _date_?” exclaimed Ron. 

“I haven’t yet,” snapped Snape. He turned his attention to Harry, then, but Ron continued to stare at him, fascinated. “Nothing too fancy – I believe you are the kind of man who would appreciate something more down-to-earth than dinner and dancing at the Copper Cauldron.”

Harry, still trying to process this unexpected turn in his afternoon, wondered how Snape could possibly know that the last man who’d asked him out had indeed taken him to the Copper Cauldron.

“Right,” he said slowly. He swallowed. “Well, what did you have in mind, then?”

“What – Harry!” Ron sputtered. “You can’t go out with Snape!”

“I can’t?” asked Harry, who never appreciated being told he couldn’t do something. “Why not?”

“Yes, why not?” echoed Snape, settling back in his chair and giving Ron a look that would have caused him to spontaneously combust twenty-five years ago. “Do go on, Mr. Weasley. Does he have a communicable disease? Is he a confirmed heterosexual? Averse to dating older men? Or is it my tattoo?”

Here, he fiddled idly with the cuff of his left sleeve, raising his eyebrow suggestively.

Harry hid a grin. He was really beginning to like this Snape. And that should worry him more than it did. Especially since, until this moment, he’d never thought that Snape was anything but straight. Or in love with his mum. One or both of those.

“No – No. That’s not – ” Ron looked at Harry for moral support but Harry was obviously enjoying his role of spectator here and wasn’t any help at all. “It has nothing to do with _that_. And Harry always dates old men, so it’s not that either. It’s just – ”

“They’re not _that_ old,” Harry cut in. “And it’s not like I’m nineteen anymore.”

“They _are_ old. How old was that last bloke? Melvin? Eighty?”

“Martin was sixty-eight. And he was perfectly fine.”

“He had nose hair!” protested Ron. “You could have braided it!”

“Is any of this relevant to your feeling that Harry should not date former Death Eaters?” asked Snape, projecting his voice in such a way that both Harry and Ron immediately stopped bickering. 

“No! I mean yes!” Ron dropped his head in his hands. “Merlin, why do I need to say this? You two – you don’t like each other. You haven’t spoken in twenty-five years. You….”

“We spoke only a few days ago. We had an interesting visit.” Snape tugged at the cuff of his robes again. “We do not dislike _each other_ as I, at least, do not dislike Mr. Potter. Nor have we been actively avoiding each other.”

“Harry,” Ron said with a sigh. “If you’re going to ask him out, don’t you think you should call him Harry?”

“I shall call him Harry if and when he invites me to do so,” Snape answered with a sniff.

“I don’t dislike you either,” Harry said as Ron’s head swiveled around toward him. “And please, call me Harry.”

“Thank you.” Snape nodded in acknowledgement, then cleared his throat and added, “Harry.”

Harry grinned and Ron groaned.

“And Ron – I have an idea he’s a lot like me in one respect – we actively avoid everyone.”

Ron rolled his eyes.

“Dinner at my home, then. Next Friday, seven o’clock,” Snape cut in. “And because I know you’ll insist, you may bring something – a green salad would be acceptable.”

“Hey - who’s told you about Harry’s salads?” Ron narrowed his eyes at Snape, suspicions aroused again.

This time, Ron did have a point. Harry’s garden salads were famous with his friends and family, an in-demand, must-have summer delicacy artfully created from the fruits and vegetables he grew himself. 

Snape shook his head in mock disbelief. “You might recall that my current apprentice is Lily Potter.” 

“Oh. Right.” Ron frowned, then had an “ah ha” moment. “Of course – Lily. She’s always trying to get Harry to meet someone and to settle down – dragging all sorts of men over here. Isn’t she, Harry? Right annoying, isn’t it? She’s put a bug in Snape’s ear – wants you two to hook up.”

Snape’s gaze slid over to Harry, who tried to hide a blush behind his pint glass.

“Miss Potter has never expressed an interest in me dating her father,” Snape stated, taking care to annunciate each word and staring directly at Ron, who went pale behind his freckles at the intensity of Snape’s gaze.

“I’ll bring a salad,” said Harry quickly. “And I’ve asked Lily not to try to set me up. She’s out of Hogwarts now, Ron. She’s respecting my wishes.”

Ron didn’t look convinced but, thankfully, kept his mouth shut.

Snape stood, straightened his still neat robes, and nodded at Harry.

“I’ll see you Monday, then,” Harry said. 

“Of course – our interview.” Snape nodded.

“Oh – and one more thing,” Harry said. “May I call you Severus?”

Snape gave Ron a pointed look, then turned back to Harry.

“ _You_ may,” he said. 

And then, before Harry had any inkling of what was about to occur, he bent down stiffly and kissed Harry.

On the mouth.

In front of Ron.

It was a warm press of lips, quick yet somehow unsure, over before Harry had time to react in any way. Snape stepped back, nodded, then Apparated away with a decidedly impolite _crack_ much too close to Ron’s ear.

“I didn’t see that,” Ron rubbed his ear and reached for his glass. “It didn’t happen.”

“I think you were just snubbed,” said Harry.

“I was snubbed, you were snogged. I definitely got the better end of things.”

Harry grinned but didn’t respond, looking out toward his children and nieces and nephews on the pitch instead. Snape had kissed him. _Kissed_ him, right on the mouth, in front of Ron no less. 

Ron, who was determinedly trying to wipe the event from his mind.

And failing.

“That was just weird,” Ron said a few minutes later as he stuck out his wand and summoned two more beers. He slid one over to Harry and refilled his own glass with the other. “Look, I know I haven’t asked anyone out in – well, in forever – but in what world do you seal the deal with a kiss on the mouth?”

Harry didn’t answer. Ron did have a point.

“He was Snape – but not, if you know what I mean.” Ron continued. He contemplated his empty bottle, then blew across the top to create a low-pitched note. “Like he’s a totally different person, but the old Snape is just hiding underneath and keeps sticking its nose out.”

Harry nodded, running over the last few minutes again in his head. Ron really had nailed it. It was Snape…but not.

“I don’t trust him,” Ron added. “He’s up to something, Harry. He wants something.”

Harry leaned back in his chair and thought about that inexpert kiss. He picked up his bottle. “Oh, I know he does, Ron. The question is – what?”

ooOOOoo

The interview with Snape on Monday was rather anticlimactic, given how peculiar his first attempt at it had been, and his subsequent visit – the one that ended with the unsolicited kiss.

Harry served tea – being certain to have the shortbread biscuits Snape had preferred the first time. Snape arrived on schedule, extracted a questionnaire stamped with a Ministry seal, and, over tea and biscuits, proceeded to read aloud a set of ridiculously irrelevant questions, dutifully noting Harry’s responses and acting as if the previous interview had never happened.

When he reached the end of the form, Snape sealed it with a flick of his wand and Harry watched it spin quickly on the table then disappear with a very neat puff of blue smoke.

“I’ve got to admit I’m a bit disappointed,” he said as he poured to warm up their tea. He tried to look very serious. “Don’t you want to know how often I have a wank?”

“I believe you’ve already shared that with me,” Snape answered. His voice was edged with disapproval and he didn’t seem at all embarrassed to be called out on his first visit.

“So what’s the story with the first interview?” asked Harry. “I didn’t notice much similarity in the ‘official’ questions.”

“I simply picked up the wrong set of questions last week,” Snape answered. He was lying – Harry knew he was lying. Who has a set of questions lying about that includes how often one wanks and whether one is circumcised or not?

“No – I don’t think so. You were trying to rattle me,” Harry looked intently at Snape, trying to read something – anything – in his face, in his body language. “You were deliberately trying to put me off kilter.”

“Was I?” Snape reached for a biscuit. The plate, however, was empty.

“You know – I’d never have thought you of all people would have a sweet tooth,” Harry said. He passed his own plate, with its untouched biscuit, to Snape, who took the offering without protest.

“You may thank Albus,” Snape replied, taking a crumbly bite of the shortbread. “And Molly Weasley. She rarely came to an Order meeting without enough baked goods to render the entire population of London diabetic.”

He ignored Harry’s subsequent questions about the first interview and eventually Harry let it go. He hadn’t met anyone quite so intriguing – or better yet, barmy – as Severus Snape in quite some time. And this re-acquaintance of sorts was so unlike anything he could have imagined that he was even more intrigued than he would have been otherwise.

And of course, there was still that odd kiss. Harry’d thought about that, too, over the past few days. He and Ron had argued about it for half an hour after Snape had left, Ron being of the opinion that casual male acquaintances, even those who preferred partners of their own gender, did not kiss _on the mouth_ to say goodbye, thank-you, congratulations, I’m sorry or to express any other greeting or emotion. Harry argued that it _was_ conceivable that Snape had been raised differently, or that he was socially awkward and didn’t quite understand the rules of engagement when you’d just asked someone out that you hadn’t seen in twenty-five years. He wondered if Snape was even gay, but didn’t mention that to Ron, who would, of course, have strong opinions to share.

“You’re as crazy as he is, mate,” Ron had said with a sigh. “And I bet he uses armadillo bile for mouthwash.”

That had broken the tension. 

But no, Harry had thought, Snape’s breath was pleasantly minty, not a bit like armadillo bile. And he’d smelled _good_. Tea and spice and soap and….damn. It _had_ been a while since he’d been kissed, hadn’t it? Was it so long that he was turned on by the man who had delighted in humiliating him? Who’d hated his father?

Who’d loved his mother?

What the fuck was he doing??

He and Snape had a pleasant visit after the very businesslike interview. Snape had questioned his sanity – and his ex wife’s – at burdening a child with the name Albus Severus, though he thought James Sirius just as bad. He’d revealed that he’d always known Ginny Weasley preferred her own gender, but that Harry’s subsequent boomerang over to the other team had been a surprise. He’d shared his treatment for the effects of seasonal allergies (a pinch of pixie dust mixed with common black pepper inhaled up each nostril first thing in the morning) when Harry sneezed and wiped his nose. He’d voiced his opinion on the exterior colour of Harry’s cottage – which was not white, and apparently, all cottages should be painted white, unless they were brick or stone, in which case they should remain their natural colour. He told Harry where to get exceptionally good prices on shortbread biscuits if he didn’t have time to whip up a batch of Molly’s. He voiced his approval of the way Harry took his tea (the merest splash of milk) and that he had the good sense to use leaves and not tea bags. He jumped from one topic to another so quickly – and seamlessly – that Harry didn’t have time to get in many questions of his own.

He realized, as he thought about it later that evening, that this was very likely Snape’s intent – to unbalance Harry, to leave him so mentally dizzy that he didn’t know which direction to look to figure out exactly what he was up to.

The few questions Harry did manage to ask were inserted when Snape’s eyes wandered over to the gardens, as they did from time to time. It was only natural, Harry thought, as the gardens were particularly large and lush, and featured a great number of Muggle contraptions to deter the squirrels and rabbits and birds. It was more difficult _not_ to notice the wind socks, foil pie tins, squirrel baffles and wire tomato cages, not to mention the whirling sculptures and brightly mosaicked tiles forming the stone paths meandering through and around the flower beds.

Thus, he learned that Snape did not miss teaching one iota, nor did he miss dealing with the idiotic and infantile Board of Governors of Hogwarts. He didn’t miss Potions either, because he still brewed quite frequently – as was necessary for a Master of Medicinal Herbology. He lived on a very small estate willed to him by Dumbledore, near Yorkshire, one which had all sorts of protective and privacy wards, preventing just anyone from Apparating in to conduct an interview (here, Snape had looked pointedly at Harry, who had shrugged and smiled). He’d come himself to fetch Harry on Friday for dinner and side-along with him back to the estate.

And after a protracted discussion revolving around ways each of them managed to dodge reporters and photographers and avoid unwanted attention in public, a conversation which served to cement some common ground between them (even though Harry disapproved of stealing hairs from Muggles for Polyjuicing), Harry noticed Snape’s eyes drifting once again to his vegetable gardens.

“Do you garden?” he asked, a bit cautiously. He really didn’t want to stir anything up – he had very strong opinions about his own approach to gardening, and wasn’t looking for advice or discord. Still, his gardens were a central part of his life, a veritable fixture, as well as his means of sustenance, and everyone he counted as friend or family knew this. Besides, Snape _had_ asked him about his tomatoes in that first ridiculous interview.

Snape’s head swiveled slowly toward him. He stared at Harry for an uncomfortably long moment, then raised a single eyebrow.

“Do _I_ garden, Mr. Potter?” He shook his head slowly in a way that said _tsk tsk tsk_. Then he stood, nodded politely, reminded Harry that he’d pick him up at seven o’clock sharp on Friday, then Apparated and was gone.

“What, no goodbye kiss?” grumbled Harry, realizing only then that a goodbye kiss would not have been unwelcome.

He picked up the uneaten chocolate biscuit from his plate and broke it in half, chewing it idly as he contemplated Snape’s question, which wasn’t really an answer to Harry’s question at all.

Did Snape garden? He seemed quite interested in Harry’s, to be sure, and had been treated to a tour of it by Lily the previous week when he’d popped in the first time. But his response seemed to indicate a certain disdain for the very _idea_ of getting his hands dirty in the soil.

But the man was a Master of Medicinal Herbology. Herbology! Surely he had a garden – an herb garden at the very least. In fact, Harry thought, his whole estate was probably a meticulously laid-out, enormous herb garden teeming with every conceivable medicinal plant known in Europe. 

But if gardening _was_ one of Snape’s things, and something that drew Snape’s interest in Harry, why didn’t he just come right out and talk about it?

Well – Friday was only a few days away. Answers to this and other questions – like why Snape was pursuing him in the first place, and if he really was gay, and what the hell he was up to – could wait until then. Fortunately, Harry had acquired more than a healthy share of patience in his years devoted to his children and his gardens. 

And while Harry certainly _was_ suspicious of Snape’s motives, he had to admit that the time he’d spent with the man to date had been interesting. Surprising. Intriguing, even. 

But was he actually he attracted to him? Oh yes. Definitely. By now, he recognized the signs. That in itself was disquieting. He’d spent the last ten minutes watching Severus’ hands as they gestured, pinched the handle of the tea mug, and idly scratched his chin as he gazed at the garden. He was just so different than Harry could ever have imagined. Put-together, but unpredictable. Intelligent but eccentric. Down-to-earth yet mysterious.

Everything that every man he’d dated since the divorce…was not. 

He thought once more about how so much of Snape’s attention had been on his gardens. The image of Snape shuffling his feet in the mud the other day came back to mind, and a niggling little suspicion rose up. Suddenly, he recalled Snape’s initial diatribe about Muggle chemicals and poisoning children. 

“Ah.” He smiled, gazing out at the garden. “Really, Severus. You only have to ask.”

He finished the biscuit and picked up another, then made his way down into the gardens. He had plenty of work to keep him busy the next few days, but he’d make time to talk to Neville, and perhaps even drop in on Charlie Weasley. Both Neville and Charlie had made some comments over the last few years that suddenly made more sense. He had a few questions to ask them, and he wanted the answers before his date with Snape on Friday.

ooOOOOoo

Harry’s gardening career had begun with a salad, and when it came down to it, he had James to thank for the inspiration.

Lily was only nine months old, and Ginny, back with the Harpies for three months, was working overtime to get back into form. On one mid-summer Sunday, she Floo-called Harry to tell him she’d meet him at the Burrow for dinner, and would he put together a salad to take along?

James and Al had approached the task enthusiastically, especially given that neither one could be persuaded to put a raw vegetable anywhere near his own mouth. Still, Al had stood on a kitchen chair pushed close to the table, watching raptly, while James helped by fetching ingredients from the fridge. James had approached the task much more eagerly after Harry had assured him that he wouldn’t actually have to _eat_ the salad, and soon Harry had a huge array of items to dice, chop and julienne including cucumber, red pepper, carrots, walnuts, dried cranberries, raisins, fresh blueberries, radishes, tomatoes, red onions, mushrooms, toasted Os cereal and goldfish crackers.

Harry hadn’t anticipated the rules his young son would impose, but in the end, it all worked out.

James was very particular about colours. In James’ world, all the colours had to be represented in the salad, but only one time each.

Thus, to use radishes _and_ tomatoes, James had to be convinced that the radishes were pink, not red. Mushrooms were “tan” to accommodate the brown walnuts. Green was simply not allowed as there was far too much green accounted for already in the lettuce and spinach (whose inclusion was heartily frowned upon by the two boys). Harry had never really considered adding fruit to a green salad, but shrugged his shoulders and tossed in the blueberries and raisins James pushed toward him, happy that James considered the raisins to be black, and didn’t insist on adding ants or garden soil. He managed to get the Toasted Os out of sight without James noticing but was caught while trying to shove the goldfish in a drawer. They compromised by bringing the goldfish along as an optional topping.

The salad was a huge hit that evening at the Burrow, but the store-bought, artificially ripened tomatoes were decidedly underwhelming. Harry remembered this acutely the next spring and, with more time on his hands now that Lily didn’t need quite so much hands-on care, decided to grow his own and enlisted Neville’s help in launching a family garden.

By then, Al was old enough to have his own opinions to add to the mix, and he was more interested in shapes than colours. Thus began the custom of shaving the carrots into three-sided spikes and slicing them into triangles, of cubing the cucumbers into dice-shaped pieces, of cutting cherry and grape tomatoes into perfectly symmetrical halves, and of carefully deshelling walnuts into brain-shaped hemispheres. 

The shape of the goldfish simply couldn’t be improved, and there was always a container available, which caused the children to forever believe they were eating vegetables when they snacked on them.

And now, while the children had long since grown up and ceased to influence the contents or design of Harry’s famous salad, Harry continued to adhere to some of their original rules. For old times’ sake, perhaps, or perhaps because he actually had grown to like cubed cucumbers and a rainbow array of vegetables and fruit. 

The salad he’d prepared to take to Snape’s for this first date was an artfully crafted culinary masterpiece, carefully packed in a glass bowl fitted into another bowl containing a bed of ice. He’d followed all the old colour and shape rules, which meant he’d been limited to one vegetable of each colour. For red, he cut up a red bell pepper. It was with some regret – and a little mischievousness - that he left out the tomatoes, which were already ripening in his early-start greenhouse.

Somehow, he had a feeling that Severus would notice this singular omission.

Harry Potter might be a simple gardener, living a life of relative (and welcome) obscurity in a small village, but he wasn’t an innocent either. He knew Snape wanted something from him, and he’d asked a few key people a few questions, then put two and two together.

Fortunately, he wanted something from Snape himself, and he was perfectly willing to use his tomatoes to his own advantage.

Neville had been the most helpful, giving Harry details of a rival gardener who operated out of Yorkshire, one who had taken second place five years running behind Neville in the _Prophet’s_ annual tomato contest. The man had challenged the results the last three years. He went by Napoleon Warbleburger and was about ninety-five years old and hard of hearing.

And while the _Prophet’s_ rules allowed fertilizer from magical beasts and magical means of pest removal, no spells or other magic were allowed to increase the size of the tomatoes themselves or to speed up the growing or maturing process.

Charlie Weasley was the head handler now at the Romanian dragon preserve. Harry remembered an incident several years back where Charlie had dated a bloke a few times, but had broken off with him when the man had proven much more interested in his dragon dung than in Charlie himself.

“He was obsessive,” Charlie had told him. “Nice looking bloke, really intense. But every time we met, he steered the conversation to tomatoes and dragon dung.”

Interesting. But absolutely – absurd. Why would Snape go through the trouble of Polyjuicing himself….for tomatoes?

But in speaking with Neville a second time, while he and Lily and the boys were having dinner at the Leaky on Wednesday evening, the pieces fell even more tightly together.

“You’re working with Snape?” Neville beamed broadly at Lily, then pulled a chair over from an adjoining table and straddled it, facing the Potters. “Not many people know this, Lils, but I studied under him for six months for my certification in Medicinal Herbology after I earned my Mastery in basic Herbology. It’s been fifteen years at least – I would have killed to see the look on his face when he found out the student he’d agreed to take on was Neville Longbottom. You probably don’t know this, Harry, but he was the one that introduced me to tomato horticulture. He’s crazy about tomatoes – or was then. Insane. And brilliant, too – even though I swear he’d have killed me if I’d so much as picked a green tomato….”

So – if Napolean Warbleburger was actually Severus Snape, the very person who was consistently trumping Snape in the tomato war was someone Snape had taught himself. Ouch. That must sting, thought Harry, as he filed the information away and began to revise his strategy.

On Friday evening, Snape arrived at Harry’s cottage at precisely seven o’clock, and escorted Harry – and his salad – directly into the spacious kitchen of his home outside of York. There was wine to be poured, then a tour of the house and of the lab facilities where Snape worked with Lily most days, and finally they sat down together at a small table on the terrace for dinner. Conversation had been easy, even pleasant, and when Severus had shown him the small study he’d preserved as Dumbledore left it – complete with knitting magazines - they’d had a pleasant time reminiscing about the old headmaster’s peculiarities.

Now, at the table, Severus took a generous portion of salad, digging around in it in a way that would have earned Harry’s children a reprimand. He side-eyed Harry once or twice as he filled his plate.

“I grew nearly everything myself,” Harry stated, almost casually, as Severus topped his bowl with the poppyseed dressing Harry had made and chewed his first forkful of the salad.

Severus swallowed. He seemed to be chewing thoughtfully.

“A noble hobby,” acknowledged Severus. He took a sip of wine then eyed the salad again. “It’s certainly colourful.”

“Of course it is – that’s one of the rules,” Harry said, smiling with the memory of the small boy who’d created the complicated colour rule. He let the hobby comment slide for the time being. “I’d prefer fresh blueberries, but they’ll be a while still.”

“Ah.” Severus seemed to contemplate the idea of blueberries in his salad. He forked another portion as Harry continued.

“The raisins and walnuts aren’t mine – we’ve never managed to get a good crop of grapes.” 

“We?” Severus lifted an eyebrow, then frowned down at the salad again.

“My family,” Harry explained. “The children – especially.” He studied Severus’ face, frowning. “Are you disappointed with the salad? Did Lily make it sound better than it actually is?” He leaned back in his chair and lifted his wine glass. “Her contribution to the recipe was the chunks of cheddar and the toasted sunflower seeds.”

“Actually, Lily mentioned tomatoes,” Snape admitted tersely after swallowing a forkful of salad and spearing yet another. “She went on about your tomatoes so long that I admit I expected there to be nothing _but_ tomatoes in your salad.” He poked at the salad again, obviously finding the absence of Harry’s famous tomatoes disturbing.

Harry watched him prod at the salad. He really hated baiting Snape like this, but the man deserved it. “You know, I started growing tomatoes when Lily was not quite two years old. I was so disappointed in the produce from the local market – especially the tomatoes. My first couple of years were pretty disastrous, but then I talked to Neville and he helped me out a bit. Of course, I….”

Severus had stiffened. The fingers on his fork turned white as his grip on it tightened.

“Is something wrong?” Harry asked.

“No – no, not at all,” Snape replied. He coughed, then took a sip of water.

“Good. I was going to say that I don’t use magic when I garden – at all. Nothing that’s not available to Muggles, too. Neville does, of course, though he really doesn’t need to, don’t you think? Anyway, I did get some excellent tips from him.”

“What sort of tips?” managed Severus. He took another long drink of water.

“Oh, you know. How important the fertilizer is, and mulching. Some ideas for pruning and staking, what kind of sun and water they like. What varieties work best in different climates and soils. Nothing anyone with a little sense wouldn’t be able to arrive at on their own, I suppose.”

Severus tensed even further but Harry pretended not to notice. He smiled.

“I didn’t put tomatoes in the salad because of the red peppers.”

Snape paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. He blinked, looked at Harry, then at his fork, then raised it slowly to his mouth.

The meal continued, and Severus managed to relax and finish the tomato-less salad without further comment, though he did fork a carrot triangle and study it curiously as he reached the bottom of his bowl. As they started on their pasta, Harry found Severus to be distracted. While he had suspected from the beginning that Severus had ulterior motives in pursuing him, as the game wore on, Harry had still hoped that Snape had some interest in him beyond his famous tomatoes. 

“So, do you bring a lot of first dates here and ask them to bring salad?” he asked as he started to wrap his spaghetti around his spoon. 

Severus raised an eyebrow. “Hardly,” he answered. 

“So I’m the first?” asked Harry.

Severus gazed at him. “Yes,” he answered, carefully.

“The first you’ve brought here to dinner or the first to bring a salad?”

“Yes, and yes.”

“Ah.” Harry smiled across at Severus, then turned his attention back to his spaghetti.

“There are easier ways to get …”

“I am not trying to get you into bed,” Severus cut in. He squared his shoulders. “I am trying to get to know you.”

“Through my garden.” Harry ate a bit of spaghetti, watching Severus. Severus’ cool, composed exterior was beginning to crack. Harry could have played the garden game for quite a bit longer, to great effect, but was currently more interested in putting it behind them and getting them back on level ground so they could explore the possibility of advancing the relationship.

“A man can learn a great deal from the hobbies of another man. A man who spends his precious spare time watching adult men and women fly around with brooms between their legs, for example….”

“Severus….”

“…is doing nothing but throwing his Galleons out the window and into the pockets of the greedy team owners.”

“Severus - gardening is not….”

“Though I suppose Quidditch is not the worst pastime one could imagine.” Severus paused, as if considering, and Harry quickly spoke up again.

“Severus – gardening isn’t a hobby for me. It’s my career – it’s how I’ve helped support myself and my family since before James started Hogwarts.”

Severus frowned again. He’d been doing far too much frowning for Harry’s liking. 

“Surely your former wife was able to take care of all of you with her Quidditch career. You can’t possibly have supported even yourself on what you could eke out of a Muggle garden. Even if your tomatoes are a tenth as good as I have heard….” 

Well, there it was.

Harry put down his utensils and stared across the table. He took a deep breath.

“Severus – all you had to do was ask me about my tomatoes. My techniques aren’t a secret. You didn’t have to pop in unannounced to get a peek at my vegetables. You didn’t have to tramp in the garden to get mud on your boots so you could analyze the soil. You didn’t have to invite me over and hope I’d add some of my hot-house tomatoes to the salad so you could sample them. And you certainly didn’t have to insult my chosen career. I’ve made enough money to invest in a Muggle restaurant in London – one that’s doing quite well, thank you, and to purchase a coffee house. I love what I do and I put my all into it. It’s given me the luxury of spending more time with my children than most fathers are allowed – and allowed their mother to do what she loves, too. So, what you need to do now that we’ve got this settled – we _do_ have this settled, don’t we? – is to finish this excellent spaghetti, then take me out for a moonlight walk to see your tomatoes so we can talk about something we obviously have in common!”

Severus had the good grace to blush. 

“Was I that obvious?” he asked after a long moment of silence where he contemplated his bowl of spaghetti and fiddled with his pasta spoon. He actually looked embarrassed. And defeated. It was not a good look on him.

“Oh, I knew you were up to something,” Harry answered, glad to have it all out in the open. “But no, it took me a bit to put the pieces together. It kind of fell together there at the end when I had a visit with Neville. He told me about a rivalry he’d been having with a Master Gardener out in Yorkshire.”

“Hmph. Longbottom.” Severus wrinkled his nose, refilled his wine glass, then nodded at Harry’s. Harry gratefully held his out. He didn’t bother to claim ignorance of this rival gardener.

“Thank you. Then I had a bit of a chat with Charlie Weasley. I remembered he’d told me about an oddball gardener who’d dated him just to try to get some free dragon dung.”

“It’s ungodly expensive,” Severus said, quite passionately. This was obviously a pet peeve he’d had for some time. “With as large as dragons are, and as much dung as they produce, you’d think the reserve would pay someone to haul it away instead of charging a king’s ransom for a mere kilo.” 

Harry nodded, worked at his spaghetti for a while, then took an exploratory bite of his garlic bread. 

“And I hardly think Otis McCargohold was an _oddball_ , though I do admit he was … quirky.”

“Otis McCargohold?” Harry’s voice rose as he repeated the name. “Really, Severus? Why they didn’t figure you out years ago….”

“I have a rather quiet life,” Severus said. “It was entertaining to watch Weasley and Longbottom struggle to keep a straight face whilst addressing me.”

“I have been wondering,” Harry said after a comfortable silence. He studied Severus’ face, the lines around his eyes and mouth, the sharp features and dark eyes. “Why that first visit? Those ridiculous questions? What in Merlin were you trying to get at with _that_? Ron thought you’d lost the plot when I told him about it and I was beginning to think he was right.”

Severus raised an eyebrow. Harry smiled. He was becoming fond of that expression.

“Perhaps I had. After all, I did agree to take on another apprentice after I vowed never again after taking on Neville Longbottom fifteen years ago and subsequently having him beat me at my own game.”

Harry laughed. “And then you got Lily, who was nervous about meeting you and working with you, and when she’s nervous she talks. She saw your tomatoes, and told you about mine, and about Neville’s, too. You must have wanted to scream.”

Severus sniffed, then his eyes settled on Harry and Harry returned the gaze in kind.

“You agreed to come here. On a date. After I asked you those ridiculous questions, and kissed you in front of your best friend.”

“Yeah, I did, didn’t I?” He hoped Severus wasn’t about to let him down, now that he knew he didn’t have to steal gardening tips and secret recipes for fertilizer from Harry. He toyed with his garlic bread, broke it in half and sopped up some sauce. “Why’d you do that, anyway?”

“Partly to shock Weasley,” Severus answered dryly. “I’ll remember the look on his face until my dying day.”

“You shocked me, too,” Harry said. “You were nothing like I remembered you – all over the place. Unpredictable. You kissed me like it was just something people did when they set up a date.”

Severus cleared his throat. “I admit I have no idea what people do when they set up a date. And as I had nothing else to say, and was completely out of my depth….”

“You kissed me.”

“It kept the focus off your tomatoes,” Severus said. “I was anxious to hide my true intentions, to keep you off kilter. It wouldn’t do for Longbottom to know the real identity of his chief competitor.”

Harry shook his head in mock exasperation. He watched Severus eat for a few moments, toying with his glass of wine. “So tell me,” he said when Severus put down his utensils, picked up his wine, and stared back at him over the rim. “What did my chatterbox daughter tell you about me that made you think you could sweep me off my feet and get all my tomato secrets?”

“Despite Weasley’s claims that she’s quite the matchmaker, she certainly didn’t have it in her head that we would ride off into the sunset together,” Severus answered coolly. Was it possible he was miffed that Lily hadn’t seen him as a suitable match for her father? “But she speaks of you often – she worries about you, rattling around all by yourself in that place without your children. She believes you need a partner, someone who likes to stay home and remain out of the limelight. Someone who enjoys spending time outside, getting his hands dirty.” His face softened suddenly, and he looked down at his hands. “She loves you a great deal, Harry. She has a kind heart, much like her grandmother.”

“I’ve always wanted to ask you about my mum,” Harry said quietly after another pause which might have been uncomfortable given the topic, but somehow was not. 

“I wondered about that,” Severus answered. “In all these years, you never tried to contact me – to learn more about her.”

“You made it pretty clear that you didn’t want me hanging around,” Harry challenged. At Severus’ confused look, he continued, “When I returned your memories.”

Severus’ eyes widened. “I hardly recall what I told you that day. I was ill – still recovering. I’d just been told by the Ministry that I was under house arrest pending their investigations.” He cleared his throat. “If I offended you, I apologize. I can be…abrupt.”

“Oh.” Harry blushed. “Yeah – abrupt about covers it. Let’s just say you told me to get out and never come back.” Even after all these years, he still recalled Snape’s pale face, the thick bandages covering his neck, his raspy voice, deadly quiet, telling him to leave immediately and to never show his face there again. It had given Harry closure, at least, and he’d moved on. But he’d never forgotten – and he’d apparently been carrying a piece of Snape around with him for twenty-five years.

“Well, ‘never’ does sound rather definite,” Severus said. He sipped his wine and the silence lengthened. Finally, he spoke again. “Do you want to hear about her – about your mother?”

Harry did. After all these years, he still wanted to hear about her. 

“Another time,” he said. “Tonight I’d rather learn a bit more about you.”

ooOOOoo

  
__

The garden is a love song, a duet between a human being and Mother Nature  
~Jeff Cox

Severus kept the tomatoes well out of sight of his house, in a well-established bed behind a garden shed. He led Harry there after they tucked away dessert, with some trepidation, Harry thought, over the moonlit flower and herb gardens and down a path of ancient stepping stones that had sunk into the ground and were now edged with moss.

The garden was fenced – and warded – against the rabbits and squirrels and other small creatures, and Harry immediately smelled the distinctive aroma of the dragon dung fertilizer – the very fertilizer, he had come to realize, that gave Neville’s tomatoes a very slight, but distinctive, fiery taste. 

“Wow.” 

Severus stood back as Harry walked through the garden, bending to see the fruit in the moonlight, stopping to smell the plants and squint, in the dimness, at the shadowy shapes. The earth was well tilled and aerated, soft beneath his feet even in the rows between the plants. Harry knelt to feel the soil at the base of a plant, standing again and brushing off his knees as he held up a fistful of earth. He worked the earth apart with his fingers, then smelled it, and let it fall back to the ground.

“Some of these fruit are already as big as my tomatoes,” he said quietly, bending again and cupping a fruit in his palm. “And they’ve weeks to go still.”

“I have some hope for this year’s output,” Severus answered. He moved from his position at the edge of the garden and walked over to stand a few paces from Harry, watching him intently as he gently examined the plant and its fruit.

Harry straightened up. “It’s a good garden, Severus. The plants are healthy and the soil is phenomenal.”

Severus stared at him, arms folded, eyes sharp. “But…?”

Harry chuckled. “I have an idea you’ve a bench out here somewhere? Some place where we can sit and talk for a while?”

And Harry sat on a comfortable porch swing hung from a limb while Severus went back to fetch some wine and, when he returned, they rocked gently back and forth for some minutes, enjoying the breeze and sipping the wine. Harry felt oddly at ease, peaceful and relaxed in Severus’ garden with the tree frogs chirping around them, but still he had something to say.

“I’m just wondering,” he began, pushing off with the tips of his toes to keep the swing in motion, “why you want to grow such large tomatoes?” 

Severus didn’t answer, though his breath hitched slightly, and the fingers around his wine glass visibly tensed.

“I’m wondering,” Harry continued, “if it’s more about the competition than it is about the actual tomato?”

“Of course it’s about the competition,” Severus answered at last. “A competition proves one’s worth – one’s skills and prowess.”

“Well, sure. Sure it does. If your goal is to prove your worth by growing the biggest tomatoes, anyway.”

They’d worked up a steady, slow rhythm, working in tandem to keep the swing swaying gently. Severus remained thoughtful for a few moments, then spoke his piece.

“You are making the old argument about quality versus quantity. That a better-tasting tomato is more satisfying than an overly large one. But isn’t gardening also about a sense of satisfaction?”

“Of course. I’m just curious why you seem to get yours only by besting the competition.” Harry stopped to consider a moment. “Because it isn’t about publicity or getting your name around – you go by a ridiculous pseudonym. It’s personal with you, Severus, and it really doesn’t need to be. Neville’s good at what he does – growing giant tomatoes is a hobby for him, just like Hagrid used to grow those giant pumpkins. He knows lots of gardeners around the Wizarding world, and they all get together and talk tomatoes and have a good time. No – they don’t share all their secrets, but they have fun with it. Fun.”

He reached over and squeezed Severus’ hand. “Fun. That’s what you’re missing, I think. You’re so focused on besting your old student that you’re not enjoying yourself.”

“I beg to differ.”

Harry shook his head. “Alright – you enjoy some of it. But what about Charlie Weasley? If you’d contacted him and asked him for some dragon dung, he’d have given you whatever you asked for – free. You don’t need to date people to get things you want out of them! God, Severus – are you even gay?”

They stared at each other a long moment, Severus’ eyes fiery and defiant at first. Then he jerked forward and kissed Harry again, and after the initial surprise, Harry kissed him back. They were each holding wine glasses, but Harry worked his hand up to cup the side of Severus’ face, and something inside him melted at the thought that Severus hadn’t had enough kisses in his life. He grazed his thumb over Severus’ cheek and swiped his tongue slowly across his lips, then pressed a slow kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“I’m actually not sure,” Severus admitted a long moment later, his voice barely audible. “But it’s looking increasingly like a very real possibility.”

Harry relaxed into the movement of the swing, feeling younger than he had in years. He retook Severus’ hand. “You’re certainly not what I expected,” he said. 

“I am not what I expected either,” said Severus sagely. “I cannot believe that I am sitting here in the dark drinking wine with Harry Potter.”

“And snogging on a swing.”

“And that.” 

“Especially since now you know that I’d have talked tomatoes with you even if you hadn’t acted all barmy and asked me to dinner and kissed me on the mouth in front of Ron.”

‘True as that may be, I wouldn’t take it back,” Severus said. “Weasley looked….”

“Oh, admit it, will you?” Harry interrupted. “Ron or no Ron - you liked kissing me.”

“I did,” admitted Severus. “I had no idea what I was doing. Was I horrible at it?” 

Harry pressed closer against him and leaned against his arm. “Not at all. It was good,” he answered. “You smelled nice.”

And Harry leaned in and kissed Severus again.

He tasted of wine and tomato sauce, and smelled of sandalwood soap. He kissed like someone who didn’t find kissing another man reprehensible in the least. Harry thought, in that moment, that kissing Severus Snape in the slowly rocking swing in the moonlight was the most romantic thing he had ever done.

“So, if we explore this relationship further, you’ll procure some dragon dung for me from Charlie Weasley?”

Well – perhaps one of the top five most romantic things.

ooOOOoo

__

Our England is a garden, and such gardens are not made  
By singing – “Oh , how beautiful!” and sitting in the shade…  
~Rudyard Kipling, “The Glory of the Garden”

It took some time to bring Severus around to his way of thinking about gardening and tomatoes, but in the end, it was an effort well worth the time. What was wrong with competing against yourself, Harry had asked? Setting your own standards? Going for your own _personal_ best?

Now, the egg shells Harry grinds for his tomato fertilizer come from Severus’ speckled hens, and Severus is just as likely to be a fixture at the work table as is Lily or one of the boys. He’s not bought into the Potter family salad rules, and delights in tormenting James and Al with all-red salads, or only round vegetables. There’s plenty of dragon dung fertilizer for the asking, but he uses it for the hot peppers where it adds the appropriate zing to the vegetables, and Neville Longbottom pops in from time to time to poke around in the soil with Harry and Severus or to ask Severus’ advice on a tricky magical herb. 

And while Severus is much more about personal bests and inner satisfaction, he still enters the annual _Prophet_ competition, and in one phenomenal year when Longbottom’s attention was focused on the birth of his first grandchild, Severus bested him by five grams.

Severus hasn’t given up the Dumbledore estate, but he’s moved his vegetable gardening to Harry’s place in Godric’s Hollow. The delicate medicinal flowers and magical herbs continue to grow in Yorkshire, and he tends them regularly, and spends hours in his secluded study and lab researching and writing. He is very much the Severus Snape he’s always been – focused, acerbic, sarcastic and dedicated – but toned down a notch, perhaps. He’s found a piece of himself that had been missing, a piece that slots in with Harry and supplies some synergy to both their lives. He’s happier, and the happiness shows through the small cracks in his façade, when his annoyance at finding Ron on his front porch with a pint glass is obviously not real, or when those ridiculous Potter boys surround him in a group hug. When Neville drops by to tease him and pretend to pick a not-quite-ripe giant tomato, he glares but sets out another mug for his former student and invites him to join them for tea.

Sixty-five may have seemed old to initiate one’s romantic pursuits, but Severus was a quick study, and Harry twenty years younger. Odd how the difference in age seemed irrelevant on the far side of forty. Harry had every intention of taking it slowly, testing the waters, as he still had some suspicion that Severus might indeed have lost the plot as Ron had suggested, or that he might have preferred women and was just confused, or settling for what was currently on offer. Severus, however, felt that he’d waited long enough, and at his age, gender preference was really a moot point. He liked Harry. Was attracted to Harry. Wanted to snog Harry and remove his clothing and touch his arse and get up to nearly anything either of them could conceive of in the privacy of their bedrooms.

And he’d had enough long and private wank sessions over the course of his solitude to have conceived of a _lot_ of things.

Though many of those things didn’t exactly occur in the privacy of their bedrooms. Sometimes they were in the garden. Or the toolshed. And one memorable time in the headmistress’ office at Hogwarts when Minerva invited them to a Quidditch game, then left them alone while she dealt with a riot in the Great Hall after the unexpected Hufflepuff win.

Severus, who hadn’t been in the headmaster’s office for nearly thirty years, didn’t seem at all awed by his return. The office had somehow shrunk with the years, or he had somehow grown. Harry was conversing with Dumbledore’s portrait when Severus reached around him and turned the portrait around to face the wall. Harry spun around in his arms to protest, but soon found himself spread out like Christmas pudding on Minerva’s desk. Severus was awarded a standing ovation by the other headmasters – perhaps for dealing with Albus as he did, or perhaps for his expert handling of the Boy Who Lived.

Or perhaps they were clapping for Harry, no longer the default leader in the physical side of their relationship, who wrapped his legs around Severus’ waist, and made all manner of vocalizations to express just how he felt about having Severus’ cock up his arse, and knocked over Minerva’s green ink and got it all over his hair and lost his glasses and wondered why the hell he’d never thought to do this years ago when his back didn’t bother him quite so much.

It was a glorious way to launch the second half of one’s life and, unbelievably, it never got old.

Harry and Severus did, however.

Slowly, gracefully and, most importantly, together.

_The End_


End file.
